Those Formative Years
by largeandincharge
Summary: My idea of how Doc Martin became the man we see today. Doc Martin and all characters owned by Buffalo Pictures.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

She stood at the edge of the second floor landing, looking down on the polished wood staircase. The conversation from the morning's phone call still rang in her ears. It had confirmed her suspicion, but nevertheless, she felt a numb shock settling over her body. She realised her hands were shaking, and gripped the banister harder.

She had known immediately that seeing her own doctor was not an option, and as the hot dread started to form in the pit of her stomach, she contemplated her next move. In the end, she had decided to take the train to Portsmouth. When she arrived, she asked a woman on the street directions to the nearest doctor's surgery, which turned out to be only a few blocks away. She told the receptionist a story she had thought up on the short walk from the train station, that she was in town on a short visit and was feeling under the weather. Of course, she hadn't used her real name.

She sat in stony silence on the return trip London, hoping by some chance she was wrong, but knowing in her heart the futility of her hopes. Now she had days of waiting and pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary. She was good at hiding her true emotions; it would not be hard to convince her busy husband that she was the same cool, well-bred social butterfly he had married five years previously. His working hours had become longer as of late, so it was very probable she would see him only a few hours within the next few days anyway.

She was home that evening when he arrived, sitting in her usual chair in the lounge, everything as it should be. She had gone to bed soon after supper, complaining of a headache, and he had stayed up to do some paperwork he had brought home. She was still sleeping the next morning when he gently kissed her forehead and left a few minutes early, hoping to avoid the morning traffic.

Mornings were already nearly unbearable; as soon as her eyes opened, waves of nausea threatened to drown her, and it was all she could do to make it to the lavatory before she succumbed to them. Eating something usually helped, but she had begun to feel queasy at other times during the day as well. The aroma from the coffee shop on the corner was enough to do her in. She used to love the smell of brewing espresso, and she angrily added it to the list of things to avoid for the time being. (Another being chocolate, which in normal circumstances was very hard for her to resist.)

The phone had rung just as she was finishing her breakfast of dry toast and tea. She was expecting a call from Mrs. Grantham about the hospital's charity benefit dinner at the end of the month, of which she was the chairwoman. She picked up the receiver on the second ring.

'Hello?'

'May I please speak to Mrs. Emily Jones?' said the caller.

She stopped cold, feeling as if she had been slapped. Emily Jones was the name she had given to the surgery receptionist in Portsmouth.

'This...this is she.'

She listened to the words being spoken, her expression never changing. At the end of the conversation, she thanked the caller and quietly laid the receiver to rest in its cradle, then slowly climbed the stairs to the upstairs lavatory and ran herself a hot bath. She knew what she had to do next, and this would be her only chance. Her husband would know the truth once it was over, whether her plan was a success or a failure. If she failed...she shook her head to rid herself of the thought. No. She was sure everything would sort itself out in the end. Everything was going to be fine.

As the water drained from the bath, she stood looking at herself in the mirror, already noticing a slight difference in her appearance. Sighing, she wrapped her dressing gown around herself and tied it securely. She had made sure she was presentable underneath the gown, and also ran a comb through her damp hair, in case someone other than her husband happened to see her. Even in this unusual situation, she had some sense of propriety; she would keep her good social standing unsullied at all cost. She had thought of everything.

And now she was standing at the top of the stairs, determined to preserve her life and marriage by carrying out her plan. The last five years with her husband had been perfect, and she would not let _anything_ change her life with him. This was only a tiny bump in the road, soon to be mended.

She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

And then, letting go of the banister, Margaret Ellingham began to fall.


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Until a minute ago, Martin had not been paying much attention to the row his parents were having downstairs, though he could tell their voices were getting louder as the argument progressed. Heated discussions between Mummy and Daddy were a common occurrence in the Ellingham household, and he was used to tuning them out. His mind was focused on the massive structure he had been building on the nursery floor with his wooden blocks. At five years old, Martin was already very good at working out how bits and pieces of things went together to make something new. He was a very clever boy; besides being able to write his full name and address, he could read many of the words in his father's newspaper. He was very interested in the long, nearly unpronounceable words in the medical journals and books in his father's study as well. His nanny, Ms. Brown, read aloud to Martin any time he wanted, even though she couldn't understand why he preferred articles in the London Times over the story books in which most children were interested. Truth be told, there were many things Ms. Brown couldn't understand about the boy, with his large, serious eyes always observing, taking in as much information as they could absorb.

They were walking closer to the front stairs now, and Martin could hear snippets of their conversation. When he heard his name mentioned, his ears (which were, regrettably, unusually large for such a small boy) perked up and he began to listen more intently. What were Mummy and Daddy on about? Mummy sounded especially upset. Martin felt an uncomfortable sensation in his tummy, almost like guilt, although he couldn't think of anything he had done recently that would make his mother go on so. Quietly, he got up from the nursery floor and crept to the hallway, staying out of sight. He knew he would be punished for eavesdropping if he was caught, but his curiosity was greater than his fear.

'No. This is absolutely inexcusable. I will _not allow_ you to change our plans after I have been looking forward to this trip for months now!'

'Maggie, it is not my fault Ms. Brown tripped over her cat and broke her leg! I don't want to postpone the trip either, but I just don't see how to avoid it. Unless you are suggesting we bring him along with us?'

'I am suggesting nothing of the sort! Don't be ridiculous. Do you actually think I would have any sort of relaxation with him in tow? And might I remind you that the whole purpose of this vacation was for us to spend time together..._alone_, not with that child and his incessant questions to drive me to distraction!'

'Well what do you propose? We can't very well leave Martin here on his own to fend for himself at the age of five! We are meant to leave day after tomorrow, and that is entirely too little time to find a replacement nanny.'

'I don't care what your solution is, Christopher, but I strongly suggest you come up with something quickly. I fully intend to leave for Spain at the appointed time, whether you are with me or not!'

Martin listened as his mother's high heels furiously clicked on the wood floor away from the staircase and toward the back of the house. His father retreated a minute later, opening the front door and slamming it soundly behind him. Martin stood in the hallway a while longer, thinking about what he had just heard. Ms. Brown had broken her leg? That sort of thing took weeks to mend, and she would not be able to look after him while she was convalescing. He was a bit sorry; she was much more patient with him than Mummy when it came to answering his questions, or when he wanted to show someone the new words he had learned to write. She also never got cross with him when he wet the bed (which still happened quite frequently) and never told his mother or father when it occurred. She only said, 'accidents happen, nothing to worry about' and that it would be their little secret. He felt very relieved when she had said that, like a large rock had been lifted out of his tummy. The last time he had wet the bed and Mummy found out about it, she had called him a disgusting little boy and had made him sit in the dark, spidery cupboard under the stairs for what seemed to him a very long time.

He went back to the nursery and sat down on the floor again, though he didn't feel like building with blocks anymore. He thought about the rest of Mummy and Daddy's conversation, about the trip to Spain. If Ms. Brown couldn't look after him, did that mean Daddy was going to stay home? Surely he couldn't do that; if Daddy was home, that meant he was working long hours at the hospital, and there would still be no one at home with Martin until late at night. Would Mummy really leave without his father? He thought she probably would: she certainly sounded angry enough when she said that. What were they going to do about Martin? They weren't really going to leave him alone there, were they? At that thought, the boy felt the prickle of tears behind his eyes, but furiously wiped them before they could fall. No, he mustn't cry; crying was something only babies and sissies did, that's what Daddy had told him. Martin desperately wanted his father to think of him as grown-up and clever. He stuck out his chin defiantly, despite its tell tale quiver. 'That's all right, I'm a smart boy, I bet I can do just fine on my own,' he thought to himself. Now if only he could make himself believe it.

The phone had rung late that afternoon just as Joan Norton was returning from the back field, where her husband was finishing the plowing. He had wanted to have it finished before the sun went down as there was rain in the forecast for later that night. Joan had been taking him a thermos of hot coffee and a sandwich to tide him over until supper, and had one foot in the front door when the phone began to ring.

'Ah, Christopher. To what do I owe the pleasure?' she said when she heard who was on the line. 'Haven't heard from you in months. How is little Marty?'

'He is very well, but he is the reason I am calling; I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a pickle. It seems Ms. Brown has broken her leg...'

Joan listened while her brother went over the circumstances. 'No nanny? And I suppose that wife of yours refuses to pass up the chance of a vacation? Right. I thought as much. How long are you going to be away? _Four weeks? _Well yes, I do understand it is your annual vacation, but we are coming into a very busy time here at the farm, with planting season and lambing underway...' Joan sighed, exasperated. 'But of course we would love to have Marty here with us. He is always welcome here, as I've said before. When were you planning on bringing him to Portwenn?'

'Oh, there isn't time for me to accompany him, we are set to leave in less than 48 hours. We'll be putting him on the train to Bodmin in the morning,' Christopher replied.

Joan's eyes widened. 'You are sending him on the train _by himself?' _she exclaimed, horrified. 'But he's only five years old!' The poor little thing! How could her brother, in good conscience, allow his small son to make a four hour train trip with no supervision? She felt her anger rising, as well as concern and pity for her nephew.

'Now, now, Joan, he will be perfectly fine. I will speak to the conductor and make sure he's looked after. Martin is prone to tears occasionally, but I will see to it that he is on his best behaviour and won't be a nuisance to the other passengers. He knows what is expected of him.'

The conversation ended after Christopher had given Joan the time of the train's arrival into Bodmin, thanking her for bailing them out at the last minute.

'He used those exact words, Phil: 'thank you for bailing us out of this predicament.' As if little Marty is a leaky faucet and not their own child. Oh, those two are infuriating!' Joan exclaimed vehemently over supper later that night. She had relayed the conversation to her husband and broke the news to him that there would be a little person under foot for a while. Phil took the whole thing in stride.

'Well, I for one am happy the lad will finally be coming to visit us. I daresay it will be a welcome change for him to be here surrounded by family who don't mind having him around. I'm sure the poor little fellow doesn't see much of his parents, what with Christopher working all the time and Margaret...' he paused.

Joan finished Phil's sentence for him. 'Margaret would be perfectly happy if Marty came to live here permanently, I have no doubt,' she spat. 'Horrible woman! I'm still quite surprised she humored Christopher and allowed him to impregnate her in the first place.'

'Well, he did buy her that villa in Portugal right after the lad was born...' Phil interjected , a hint of a smile on his face.

Joan laughed. 'For services rendered, I suppose!'

_To be continued... _


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Martin stood beside the front door, his suitcase at his feet, watching his father as he put on his overcoat. It was a chilly, rainy London morning. The boy knew he was going to be taking a train ride, but that was all the information Daddy had given him. Mummy was on the phone, going over last minute details with the travel agent about the impending vacation to Spain. Martin thought she looked lovely, her short hair curled around her face, wearing the pretty pale green dress she had bought on her last shopping trip. He was sure his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world; she was most definitely the prettiest mum he had ever seen.

'Right, time to go, Martin. Say goodbye to your mother,' Daddy said. Martin walked quickly over to where Mummy stood and impulsively threw his arms around her legs, hugging her tightly. She frowned, looking down at him, and sighed into the phone, 'excuse me for a moment, William.' She put her hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver.

'Can't you see that I am on the phone?' she hissed. Martin's face fell.

'I'm sorry, Mummy,' he answered. 'I just wanted to say goodbye.'

'Yes, all right, goodbye, Martin. Mind your manners and behave like a proper young gentleman.'

'Yes, Mummy.'

His mother turned away from him and said into the phone, 'very sorry about that, William, now where were we?'

Martin moved back to the front door and picked up his suitcase. It was rather heavy and cumbersome, but he thought he would be able to manage it all right. He and his father went through the door and climbed into the waiting taxi on the curb. The rain was heavier now, and Martin watched the windscreen wipers slap back and forth as the taxi driver pulled out into traffic.

'Daddy,' he began a few minutes later, 'where exactly am I going?'

'We are going to Paddington Station, where you will board the train and travel to Bodmin Station in Cornwall. Your Aunty Joan will pick you up there.'

Martin was not aware that he even had an Aunty Joan, and said as much to his father.

'Your Aunty Joan is my sister, and you will be staying with her and your Uncle Phil while Mummy and I are in Spain. I expect you don't remember them; the last you saw them, you were only two years old or so.' Daddy went back to reading his newspaper.

'Do any other children live there?'

'No, just your Aunt and Uncle.'

'What sort of place is Cornwall? Is it very much like London?'

'You are going to the village of Portwenn. It is nothing at all like London.'

'What sort of house does Aunty Joan live in?'

'She lives on a farm. In a farm house. They have lots of animals to look after.' Daddy was starting to get impatient with him; Martin could tell by the way he pressed his lips together. He was quiet for a few minutes.

'Daddy...'

His father sighed deeply and dropped the paper from in front of his face. 'Yes, Martin.'

'Why has it been so long since I've seen my aunt and uncle?'

'We live very busy lives. They are busy looking after the farm and we are busy as well.'

'Do they remember me, do you think?'

'Yes, I am fairly certain they will remember you,' Daddy replied dryly.

'What if they don't like me?'

'Don't be silly, Martin. Just make sure you are on your best behaviour and use your manners at all times. And for heaven's sake, don't go whinging and crying about everything. No one wants a boy who acts like a sissy; it is very tiresome. And another thing...don't ask so many questions!'

'But...'

His father held up his hand, a stern look on his face. 'Enough, Martin! Sit there quietly and let me read my newspaper in peace!'

Martin closed his mouth tightly and didn't say another word until he was boarding the train.

After speaking briefly to the train conductor, Daddy said goodbye to Martin, reminding him to be on his best behaviour. Martin boarded the train and found his seat and hurried to the window to wave at his father, only to find he had already turned around and begun walking away from the platform. Martin swallowed a lump in his throat, his chin quivering, but refused to allow any tears to fall. He was going to be fine on his own, it was only a few hours before he would be in Cornwall. He tried to imagine what Aunty Joan's farm would look like. He had only ever seen pictures of farm animals in books, as well as tractors and other farm equipment, but London had not been the place to encounter those sorts of things in person. The only _real_ animals he had ever seen were the dogs being led on leashes, the occasional stray cat, and the pigeons being fed by the old people in the park. Oh, and he had seen some horses as well...sometimes they pulled carriages for people to ride in.

Martin spent the better part of the first hour on the train thinking and watching the scenery moving quickly past his window. The clack-clacking of the rails and the steady rocking of the train car soon made him very sleepy. He felt his eyelids getting heavier. Just then, the conductor made his way through the car and stopped beside him. 'It's quite all right if you want to take a little rest, lad. I'll make sure you are awake by the time we get to Bodmin Station,' he said kindly. Martin looked at him solemnly. 'Thank you, sir,' he replied. The conductor nodded and went on his way toward the back of the car. The boy sighed, closed his eyes, and drifted off into a deep sleep.

He dreamt of wading into a large, calm pool of lovely warm water, like a giant bathtub. He kept walking very slowly, and with every step he felt more and more relaxed. The water was up to his knees...then his thighs...then his waist...Martin awoke with a start, feeling the spreading warmth in his trousers and realizing, with horror, what was happening. He tried to stop what had started, but it was too late. He looked down, panicked, and watched the dark, wet patch spreading all over his front. He could feel the wetness begin to travel into the seat cushion underneath him. '_Oh no!_ ' he groaned quietly, and quickly looked around to see anyone had noticed. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him, and for a second he thought maybe it would be okay; maybe by the time he had to get off the train, his clothing would be dry enough that no one would be the wiser.

But this was not to be. In a few short minutes, he felt the train began to slow. Martin felt the heat begin to rise in his cheeks from the shame of what he had done. There was nothing he could do; everyone was going to see what a dirty, nasty boy he was. And his mother and father were going to be so, so angry with him.

The conductor approached the boy's seat and saw that he was crying in earnest. 'My goodness, lad, what is the matter?' he asked with concern. He then noticed the wet trousers, and understood. 'Oh dear, had a little accident, did you?' he said gently. Martin just nodded and continued crying. 'There there, that's all right, son. These things happen on occasion, no need to be so upset. Up you get, we've just pulled in to Bodmin Station. And who will be picking you up here?'

'My...my Aunty Joan,' Martin replied, his little voice thick with tears.

'Right, as soon as your Aunty Joan gets you back home, you'll be cozy by the fire in some fresh dry clothes,' said the conductor, leading Martin by the hand to the front of the train car.

Joan stood on the train platform, watching as the passengers departed the train and hurried to their next destination. She had been worrying about little Marty all day, knowing he would be travelling alone, and hoped his trip was pleasant, regardless of the circumstances. Just then, the conductor exited the train car, followed by a small little fellow who looked as if someone had killed his puppy. Of course it was Marty. Those ears were a dead giveaway. But why on earth was he so upset?

'What has happened?' she demanded, rushing toward the conductor and the pitiful little creature by his side. She knelt down in front of Martin to make sure he hadn't been hurt somehow...and then realization dawned on her.

'I fell asleep on the train,' Martin cried, 'I was so sleepy...and then...' fresh tears escaped his eyes as he hung his head.

'Like I told you, lad, accidents happen, there's no harm done,' the conductor patted him on the shoulder. 'I expect you are the boy's Aunt?' he said to Joan.

'Yes, thank you for your kindness,' she replied. 'Now, Marty, it's all right...'

'No, it's not! Mummy and Daddy...they are going to be angry with me, I've been a naughty boy...' the poor child was beside himself, and all because of a little wetting accident? Joan pursed her lips together as the frustration and anger toward her brother bubbled to the surface. She pulled the boy close to her and hugged him tightly. At first, his small body stiffened, as if he wasn't sure what was happening, but then she felt him relax and put his arms around her neck. His crying soon became the occasional sniff and gulp of air.

'Now,' Aunty Joan said, looking at Martin, 'everything is going to be fine; we are not going to tell your mother and father about this, because it was only an accident. You didn't mean to do it, and you are not a naughty boy, do you understand?'

Martin's eyes widened with surprise. 'You...aren't going to tell them?' he asked in a small voice.

'Of course not. It's over and done with. Now, let's get your suitcase and get you home so you can change and have some supper.' She smiled at her nephew, stood up, and held out her hand.

Martin looked up at his Aunty Joan. Now that his tears had subsided, he noticed her kind face, her twinkling eyes that looked as if she may laugh at any second. This woman was Daddy's sister? They certainly didn't look anything alike...or act anything alike, for that matter. She had told him he wasn't naughty...and when she hugged him, it had felt so lovely; she was soft and cozy, like he was holding a warm blanket. And he would be staying with her for four whole weeks!

He felt a grin spread slowly across his face, and put his small hand in Aunty Joan's. They stayed that way as they retrieved Martin's suitcase and walked to where the old farm truck was parked.


	4. Chapter Three

**Doc Martin and all characters therein are owned by Buffalo Pictures. I own a slightly abnormal brain, an eclectic music collection, an amazing recipe for cheesecake, and entirely too many pairs of shoes.**

CHAPTER THREE

'What's the matter, Marty? Just reach in there...'

'No, thank you.'

' It's all right; she won't hurt you.'

'Aunty Joan, I am not putting my hand under that chicken.'

Joan sighed and rolled her eyes, her lips twitching in amusement. This was the first morning Joan had managed to convince Martin to even enter the chicken coop; the erratic flapping of wings and pecking at the ground made him very wary, to say nothing of the smell emanating from the yard. He had finally ventured inside out of sheer curiosity. He knew, at least in theory, that the eggs he ate for breakfast came from the hens. The mechanics of the whole process was still a complete mystery, however. He watched, fascinated, as Aunty Joan reached into nests, under birds, and into hiding places all around the henhouse and emerged with eggs nearly every time. The colors of the shells varied from dark tan to greenish-white. He wondered what made them all different shades...did each hen make her own special color, like a human's fingerprint? He found the chickens to be extremely fascinating.

Not enough to reach his hand underneath their backsides, though. A line had to be drawn somewhere.

It had been almost a week since Martin had arrived at the farm, and so far, the little fellow seemed to be settling in quite nicely. He was a bright little thing and seemed very interested in learning all he could about the workings of the farm. After witnessing the hilarious sight of the boy sitting on his Uncle Phil's lap in the tractor seat- wearing his little suit coat, tie, and well shined shoes-Joan had immediately gone into the village and purchased proper play clothes for Martin. The uncomfortable look on his face after he had donned them made her wonder if he had ever worn anything else but his formal little suit. That was certainly not the only concern she had about his upbringing, either; those first nights, he had wet the bed and woken in a complete panic, begging Joan not to tell his parents what had happened.

'Marty, what happens when you wet the bed at home?' she casually asked him, after changing his bedding for the fourth morning in a row.

'Mummy gets very cross.'

'Does she punish you?'

He hesitated. 'Yes...sometimes she puts me in the cupboard under the stairs and locks the door. Sometimes, she tells Daddy and he whips me when he gets home from work. But I deserve to be punished for being a naughty boy.' He shrugged his shoulders.

Joan's heart nearly broke at his words. 'My dear, you do understand that I am not going to tell your Mum and Dad, nor am I going to punish you for something that you can't even help? Just because you have an accident, that does not mean you are naughty, not at all. On the contrary, you are a very good boy; you have been very helpful with Uncle Phil's plowing, and you helped me loads with supper last evening in the kitchen, didn't you?'

Martin stood a little taller and nodded his head. 'Uncle Phil said I was very good at steering the tractor.'

'That's right, he told me the very same thing. Yes indeed, you are a very good fellow to have around. Now, let's not worry about a wet bed anymore. If it happens, it happens. There are much more important things to think about around here...for instance, I need some help in the barn today. One of the sheep had her lamb last night and she is rejecting it. We need to make sure the baby gets taken care of properly.'

Martin nodded seriously, ready to take on any task that his Aunty Joan deemed important. 'What do you mean "rejected", Aunty Joan?'

'Sometimes with sheep, the mothers have their babies, but don't want to take care of them. They won't let them drink any milk or give them any attention, and sometimes, they kill them,' she replied gently. They both put on their coats and wellies and made their way hurriedly to the barn.

'But why? That's awful, it's the Mummy's job, the lamb can't help being born,' Martin was indignant.

'It's just the way things are sometimes.'

'It's not fair!'

'No it isn't fair, you are right,' Aunty Joan conceded. 'But this lamb is going to be lucky because it will be cared for by us. It will grow up strong and healthy, don't you worry.'

Uncle Phil was in the barn waiting for them, and had prepared a glass bottle full of milk for the lamb. He topped the bottle with a rubber nipple and held it out to Martin.

'There you are, lad, and have a seat there on the straw while I fetch the lamb,' he said to the boy. Martin made himself comfortable on a pile of hay, and Uncle Phil placed the tiny creature in his lap. He hesitated, then moved the bottle toward the lamb's mouth. The baby immediately latched on and began eating noisily. Martin giggled in surprise. 'Look, Aunty Joan! I'm feeding it!' he exclaimed happily. 'Wait...Uncle Phil, which is it, a boy or a girl?'

'She's a lovely little girl. And she certainly does have an appetite!' Phil replied. Martin grinned, feeling very proud of himself. It gave him a nice warm feeling in his chest to be taking care of something that needed him. Holding the bottle tightly with one hand, he rubbed the fingers of the other through the lamb's soft, warm wool. She had nearly drunk all the milk, a good portion of it dribbling down her chin and onto Martin's coat. For once, he didn't much care that his clothes were getting filthy.

Joan watched the scene, burning it into her memory. The irony of the situation was not lost on her, the rejected animal child being cared for by its human counterpart, her rejected nephew. She choked back tears full of anger, sadness, and pity. Martin had only been with them a few days and her maternal feelings for him were nearly overwhelming. She already loved him fiercely, and had immediately felt herself go into protective mode when she thought about how her brother and that horrible..._woman_ were treating him. She and Phil had been trying to conceive a child since their wedding night and had had no luck at all. They both just ached with longing to be parents, while Christopher and Margaret were complete rubbish at it and had no desire for the dear little boy they had produced. Why had God graced them with a child, unwanted? Why had He not given Martin to her and Phil instead? Just as little Marty had said, it wasn't fair. No, it wasn't at all fair, and it made Joan completely heartsick.

Martin's voice brought Joan out of her revelry. 'She should have a proper name, don't you think? What should we call her?' Phil glanced at her, and she raised an eyebrow. She didn't have the heart to tell Martin where most of their sheep ended up: more than likely, in a neighbor's mutton stew. Well, this one would just have to be the exception.

'You may call her whatever you like, my boy,' Uncle Phil replied. 'You are going to be the one taking care of her.'

Martin's face lit up. 'Really?'

'Of course, if you want to, that is.'

'Oh, yes, please!'

'Right then, I'll leave you to it. I must get to planting. Let me know what you come up with, my lad,' Uncle Phil briefly placed his hand on the top of Martin's head, gave Joan a quick kiss, and was on his way. Joan sat down in the straw beside Martin and asked, 'well? Have you got any ideas for a name?'

Martin sat in concentration, his brow wrinkled, absentmindedly petting the animal in his lap. At last, he declared, 'I think I shall call her Dinah.' He looked down at the lamb, chewing his lip. Then he nodded. 'Yes. Her name is Dinah.'

It was all Aunty Joan could do to keep her laughter in check. She had no idea where Marty had come up with the name Dinah, but he was so serious about it, there was no other name it could be. Sometimes little Martin was so solemn and brooding, it was easy to forget he was only five years old. Naming a lamb Dinah was decidedly an age-appropriate thing to do for a small boy, Joan realized with delight. Thank God there was still some child in him yet.

The next morning, for the first time at Aunty Joan and Uncle Phil's farm, Martin woke to find he had been sleeping all night on clean, dry sheets.


	5. Chapter Four

**Doc Martin and all characters therein owned by Buffalo Pictures. I'm just borrowing them for a bit. **

CHAPTER FOUR

The remaining weeks on the farm were very busy ones for Martin, and most nights he could barely stay awake to eat his supper. In addition to taking care of Dinah, he helped Uncle Phil with the planting, learned how to clean fish (which thoroughly disgusted him; he merely watched as Aunty Joan did all the dirty work), made an attempt at milking a cow (and got more milk inside his wellies than in the pail), and was on hand regularly in the kitchen to help Aunty Joan with the meals. The most exciting thing for him, however, was when Uncle Phil had sliced open his hand on a piece of machinery in the barn and had to be rushed into the surgery in Portwenn to be stitched up. It amazed Joan how a child so adverse to touching anything dirty or messy, like the fish, could be completely enthralled by a gaping wound that was dripping blood everywhere. He had even begged to watch the doctor sew it up! Phil said he never took his eyes off the doctor for a minute, just sat there in rapt attention.

'I suppose he does have some of his father in him after all,' Joan remarked. 'Perhaps being a doctor is in his blood.'

'He certainly is an intelligent lad, he _could_ become a surgeon someday,' Phil conceded. 'But God help him if he is anything like his father.'

Joan was pleased Martin had shed his timid, serious nature for a time and took to being a boisterous five year old with gusto. He ran and played in the garden with Dinah scampering behind him, the sun turning the fair skin of his cheeks and nose a bright pink. He loved to gather wild flowers and present them to his Aunty, who always made a point to praise their beauty and hug and kiss him in return. Martin had grown to love the affection given to him by his aunt and uncle. He had never really experienced it before; Daddy was more concerned about his son becoming a well mannered, disciplined young man, and Mummy resented his neediness. After trying many times to put his arms around his mother and being pushed away, Martin had eventually stopped trying. Even Ms. Brown, the nanny who was so good to him, was not the sort of person the boy could go to for a proper cuddle.

Bedtime had become Martin's favorite time of all. After he had put on his pajamas and brushed his teeth, he would sit in Aunty Joan's lap while she read to him. After rejecting a story book and a book of nursery rhymes that Joan had picked up in the village, he had settled on The Hound of the Baskervilles and would not be persuaded otherwise. Joan was certain she would regret it later (more than likely in the middle of the night, as she was sure nightmares were imminent), but she relented in the end. As it turned out, Martin loved the thrilling tale and didn't seem to have any trouble distinguishing between what was real and what was a made-up story. He went to bed without incident and slept soundly through the night, putting Joan's worries of nightmares to rest.

Martin loved being read to, and he loved how Aunty Joan tucked him into bed each night with a kiss on the forehead. She never seemed to be in any hurry and always answered his questions honestly and patiently. She made him feel that what he was thinking or feeling was really important, and she never seemed to mind when he wanted to know more about something and inquired about it. After a while, he came to understand that he could tell his Aunty anything that was troubling him and she would not scold him or make him feel badly. It was because of this deep trust he had in her that he was able to tell her the one thing he had been thinking about that he knew must be very bad indeed.

'Marty, is there something the matter? You have been so quiet this evening, and you seem so sad,' she asked him as she tucked him into his bed one night. Indeed, he had been brooding most of the day and hadn't seemed very interested in his supper or even the chapters she had read to him. 'You know, you will sleep much better if you tell me what is bothering you.'

He looked away from her uncomfortably, his little brow furrowed. 'I don't want to tell you, Aunty Joan. I don't want you to think I'm a naughty boy for saying it. I know it's terrible, and I shouldn't be thinking it.'

'You are not a naughty boy, you are good and kind and very helpful, and I don't like it when you are unhappy. You know you can tell me anything at all. Have I ever been cross about something you have told me?'

'No.'

'Right. And I won't be cross now.' Joan brushed her nephew's blonde hair off his forehead and waited for him to speak. He sighed deeply.

'Aunty Joan...' he began, 'I was thinking that I don't miss my Mummy and Daddy at all! I know it's awful of me, but it's true, I don't want to go home, I want to stay here with you forever!' Tears welled up in his eyes and he tried his best to keep them from falling. 'I can't help it, Aunty Joan, I've tried all day to think about them and miss them but I just...I just like being here, I like taking care of Dinah and helping Uncle Phil, and I like being with you!' Martin sat up in bed and threw his arms around Joan's neck, crying.

Joan struggled to keep her emotions in check. She would have loved nothing more than to keep him and raise him as her own child; she had caught herself thinking about it quite frequently since his arrival. But she knew that it was an unrealistic dream, that he would soon be going back to London and there was nothing she or Phil could do about it. It broke her heart and caused her concern and worry, but Martin had two parents at home...such as they were. Even though she knew her brother and his wife were not giving him the love and attention he so deserved, she didn't feel it was enough to justify him leaving home and being raised in her house. Christopher, being a very prominent surgeon, saw having an heir as a sort of status symbol. He would certainly not allow such a blow to his ego.

'My dear,' she began gently, 'I am glad you enjoy spending time here with us, and we love having you here. You are not bad just because you are having a little bit of fun! This is your vacation time, just as Mum and Dad are having their vacation. And you know you are welcome here any time you want to come and visit us. I will have a talk with your father and make arrangements for you to come back in the summer. How does that sound?'

'Why can't I just stay here? It's so much nicer here than in London,' Martin replied, sniffling.

'I expect you would start to miss your Mum and Dad very much, and they would certainly miss you.' Even as she said it, Joan was not entirely convinced that it was the truth. 'Now, let's not think about it anymore for tonight. You still have nearly two weeks here. We will enjoy our time together and cross the bridge of going home when we come to it.' She gave him one last hug and settled him into his bed. 'Go to sleep now; we have a lot of work to do in the morning.'

After Aunty Joan gave him his kiss and left the room, Martin stayed awake a bit longer, thinking about what she had said. For the first time, he thought maybe that Aunty Joan was wrong. He didn't think Mummy and Daddy would miss him at all. They hadn't even called to make sure he had made it safely on the train; Aunty Joan had tried calling them all evening, and finally reached them late that night to let them know he had arrived. The sad truth was, he had been at the farm for over two weeks and he hadn't heard from them once.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Despite Martin's best efforts to make time stop at the farm, the day did finally come when the phone rang and his father was making arrangements to travel to Cornwall to collect his son. He would be arriving by train in two days' time and would take a taxi to the farm. Joan was to have Martin packed and ready to return home the following day. She had hoped her brother would stay a few days before going back to London, but he was anxious to get back to work at the hospital after being in Spain for so many weeks.

Martin certainly tried to put on a brave face for the remainder of his visit, but Joan immediately observed he had started to revert back to his quiet, brooding ways. He wouldn't let her out of his sight for a minute, and nearly panicked when he called out to her and she didn't answer right away. He had become like her little shadow, even going so far as to sit outside the lavatory door while she tended to her business inside. What most concerned her, however, is on the night his father had called about coming to collect him, Martin had wet his bed; it was the first time it had happened since their little chat at the beginning of his visit. Joan felt completely helpless, knowing that her dear little nephew was in distress but could do very little about it. She already planned to have a long chat with her _dear_ brother when he arrived, though she was fairly certain it would be like having a conversation with the garden fence. After all, Joan didn't have a child of her own, so what gave her the right to lecture him on parental matters? Christopher was sure to be a pompous ass, as per usual, but she had to make an attempt for Marty's sake. She couldn't bear the thought of her little fellow being unhappy after he went home.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Christopher Ellingham's taxi arrived late in the afternoon on the proposed day, and Martin was in the front garden with Joan, waiting to greet him. The first thing he noticed was how blonde his son's hair had turned from being outdoors, almost white against his pink cheeks and nose. He looked a bit taller standing there beside his Aunty, but still wore the same serious expression, all eyes and large protruding ears.

'Hello, Joan. Hello, Martin. What on earth are you wearing?' he exclaimed as he carried his travel bag from the boot of the taxi to the garden gate.

Martin looked down at his attire. 'They're my play clothes.'

'Well, they are absolutely ghastly. No son of mine is going to be seen looking like an urchin. Go and change into your proper clothing at once.' Martin frowned a bit, but did as his Daddy told him.

'Well, lovely to see you too, Christopher,' Joan said sarcastically. 'You couldn't even get in the front door before you began berating the poor child, I see.'

'Really, Joan, has he been wearing those things the entire time he's been here?'

'Of course he has; you don't think I was going to let him run and play around the farm in the junior funeral attire he was sent in, do you?'

Christopher's expression showed his distaste. 'I daresay Martin is not much of a runner and player; surely he didn't take too kindly to stomping about in the mud or consorting with the cattle?'

'Marty has had a perfectly lovely time doing just that, as it happens, and I would kindly ask you to refrain from spoiling his final day here by chastising him. He is only five years old and he deserves the chance to enjoy being a child,' Joan really hadn't intended to start this conversation before they had even made it into the house, but that brother of hers managed at all times to infuriate her at the word 'go'. She took a deep breath and went on, 'come in and have some tea. Phil will be in from the field shortly.'

The rest of the afternoon went quickly. Martin still chose to stay close to Joan, but he had begun to tell his father about some of the interesting things that had happened on the farm while he had been there. Daddy seemed interested in the tale of Uncle Phil's injury, and looked at the wound himself to make sure it was healing properly. After confirming the GP had done an adequate job, Martin began to tell him about Dinah and how he had been taking care of her since she was born. Christopher was predictably appalled. Phil took that as his cue to return to his work repairing the fence in the sheep pasture; he knew if he stayed to listen to Christopher's next tirade, he would end up saying something he would regret later.

'Joan, you have allowed him to hand-feed and play with a sheep?' he asked angrily. 'Do you know how many germs and bacteria are carried by those animals? It's a wonder Martin hasn't been ill the entire four weeks!'

'Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be so silly,' Joan replied, rolling her eyes. 'He has been perfectly fine, not so much as a runny nose. He has been very responsible and has taken care of the animal wonderfully; you would be proud to see what a caregiver he is.' Martin gave a tiny smile to Aunty Joan, pleased.

Christopher smirked. 'Well, I certainly don't plan to go traipsing to that filthy barn to stand and watch my son cavorting with a sheep. Martin, seeing as how I am here and we are leaving tomorrow, you will have to turn over your duties as wet-nurse to your Aunty Joan.'

Martin looked at his Daddy, confused. 'But...Dinah has two more feeds before I go to bed, I can still do them tonight, can't I?' he asked quietly.

'No. You will be busy getting ready for the trip home in the morning, and you will be going to bed early. There will be no more trips to the barn.'

'But Daddy...at least let me go say goodbye to Dinah. That would be okay, wouldn't it, if I just went for one minute? She'll wonder where I am,' Martin pleaded.

'I said no and that is what I meant. There will be no more discussion.'

Joan watched as Martin tried to keep from crying. He opened his eyes widely, blinking, his mouth contorting as he tried desperately to control his emotions in front of his father. Joan didn't understand. What was the harm in letting the child have five minutes to say goodbye?

'Christopher, at least let him see her one last time, he loves her so...' she began.

Her brother slammed his palm down on the tabletop, causing the dishes to jump. 'I am the boy's father, and now that I am here, the decisions regarding Martin are mine. This is none of your concern,' he said in a cold, controlled voice. Joan could feel her anger rising.

'This is still my house,' she began, 'and while you are in it, you will not speak to me in such a manner. Furthermore, Martin is a wonderful, thoughtful, well-behaved little boy and has been a joy to both Phil and me, and I see no reason in causing him so much distress over a five minute visit with his pet. Look at your son, Christopher; he is just a little boy!' Martin was crying now, not just because of Dinah but also the heated argument that was taking place in front of him. His father's glance turned into an expression of contempt.

'Yes, Joan, look at him, blubbering away like a sissy...no doubt your influence has attributed to this behaviour,' he sneered. 'Martin, stop that crying at once and leave the table. Nobody wants to be around you when you are sniveling like a baby.' Joan gasped, her mouth gaping.

Martin stood up, his fists clenched, and yelled through his tears, 'I don't care what you say! I am going to say goodbye to Dinah!', and ran out the front door. It was Christopher's turn to gape, but his astonishment soon turned to pure anger. Martin had never deliberately defied his authority, and he was not about to let a five year old get the upper hand. He rose from the table and began to undo his belt buckle.

'What are you doing?' Joan exclaimed, horrified. She watched as Christopher wrenched the belt free from the loops on his trousers.

'No son of mine will behave that way, I simply will not have it. He is going to be properly punished, and I assure you, when I am through with him, he will never think to defy me or raise his voice to me again!' He doubled the belt in one hand and took a step toward the front door, seething.

That was all it took for Joan to react. She didn't care that Christopher was Martin's father, that he stood eight inches taller than she, or outweighed her by fifty pounds. She didn't care that her brother looked like he would injure anyone who got in his way. She was going to protect Martin if it meant her bodily harm or certain death. No one was going to hurt her nephew, not if she had it in her power to stop it.

'CHRISTOPHER!' she said at the top of her lungs, grabbing the kitchen chair and slamming the legs onto the floor to get his attention. He stopped and turned toward her, surprised. She swiftly opened the drawer nearest to her and retrieved the knife she used to clean and scale fish, holding it in front of her as she hurried toward him. She stopped within inches of where he was standing and pointed the knife at his chest. Her brother drew in a breath, his eyes wide.

'I will only say this once, so listen very carefully,' Joan began in a calm, menacing voice. 'If you ever, EVER lay a hand on that boy, whether here or at home, rest assured that when I get wind of it, you will never have the privilege of seeing your son again.' Christopher made to speak, but Joan cut him off. 'And if you think for one minute I can't or won't do it, take another step. You'll see just how sharp I keep this knife.' Hesitating for a moment, Christopher took a step back and laid his belt on the table. He stared at Joan warily, wondering what the bloody hell had gotten into her.

'Sit down and listen up,' she commanded, and he did as she asked. 'Martin is a good boy, kind and clever and very smart. He needs a chance to play and get dirty and be silly if he chooses to.' Her brother rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

'I am not trying to undermine your authority as a parent, nor am I saying he should be allowed to be disrespectful or disobey the rules. But I love him, and I want him to be a normal, happy, loving child who will grow into a fully functioning adult. Forgive me for losing my temper with you, but your son is very precious to me and I can't abide you hurting him.' Joan crossed her arms and raised her chin, clearly making it known she was not about to back down on the matter. Christopher had seen his sister like this many times before, enough to know there was no point in arguing. He knew when he had been defeated.

He sat for a moment, staring at the table. Finally, he said, 'I appreciate the care you have taken with him while we've been away; he clearly enjoys being here, and the fresh air and exercise seems to agree with him. I know you want what is best for Martin, as do Margaret and I.'

'We have had a wonderful time having him here, and I do hope...for my sake, as well as Marty's...that you allow him to come back here as often as he can. He will certainly be welcome. I am going to miss him terribly; I have gotten so used to having him around,' Joan said frankly. 'I was actually hoping he could return in the summer for a while, if you are agreeable.'

Joan and her brother sat at the table for a few minutes more, working out the details of Martin's next visit. The anger between them had dissipated, the incident seemingly forgotten as they chatted. However, the memory of Joan standing before him with a knife was very clear in Christopher's mind. He knew she had meant every word she had said. She was a tough, determined woman-she would have no qualms about eviscerating him if she had to. He knew he would have to govern himself accordingly in her presence from now on when it came to Martin. Still, it was a small price to pay. Margaret would be thrilled to hear of Joan's eagerness to have their son stay at the farm. Not only would they not need to employ a full-time nanny, but his wife would be free to travel more often, and delve more readily into her charity work. She was always so busy with meetings and luncheons and events; now she could pursue them, unencumbered. Christopher felt that it was a perfect arrangement for everyone involved.

_Author's note: This chapter was a tough one for me. I've grown to love little five year old Marty, and writing about him being mistreated has been a challenge that has caused considerable frustration (and a few tears as well!). Thanks for reading; more to come!_


	6. Chapter Five

**Doc Martin and all characters are owned by Buffalo Pictures; I'm just borrowing them for a while.**

CHAPTER FIVE

After a very emotional and tearful goodbye, wherein Joan tried to squeeze enough kisses and cuddles to last both she and Martin for the next three months, she stood at the door waving at her little fellow as Christopher drove down the lane. The last glimpse she had was of him sitting in the backseat, his tearstained face gazing sorrowfully out the back window, his little palm pressed to the glass. Uncle Phil was a bit concerned for his wife and how hard she was taking their nephew's departure. Although she managed to do her chores around the farm as usual, he caught her many times at a standstill, wiping tears from her face. When he came in for his afternoon tea, she was sitting at the table dejectedly with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. He went to her and put his arms around her shoulders from behind, kissing the top of her head.

'Cheer up, love. It won't be long before he's back here with us,' he told her.

'I worry for him, Phil,' she answered somberly. 'He doesn't have a chance in that house. He should have been ours from the start.' Fresh tears began to flow from her eyes.

'I know it feels that way, my dear, and I wish things were different, I truly do. But I guess God has His reasons, even though I can't see why in the world...'

'I don't care about God's reasons!' Joan exclaimed bitterly. She sighed deeply and ran a hand down her face. 'Do you think he is going to be all right?'

'Martin has that Ellingham determination in his blood. He'll be fine.' Phil kissed her head again and went to put the kettle on the stove. Joan sat a minute more, then went to help her husband with the tea. All the while she was thinking about how this would be the longest three months she had ever spent.

XXXXXXX

A few changes had been made at home by the time Martin had arrived. In addition to Ms. Brown, the nanny (whose broken leg had healed up quite nicely), there was now a private tutor for Martin. Daddy had thought it was high time to begin Martin's education; although he was to be enrolled in Infant School in the fall, Christopher was determined his son would be at the top of his class before he even arrived. His ultimate goal was to have Martin begin boarding school at the age of seven, a year earlier than children usually began. He was already hobnobbing on the golf course with the Headmaster of Lord Malvern Hall-considered one of the most prestigious and disciplined boarding schools in the region.

Miss Abigail Murphy was a retired boarding school teacher and the sister of one of Christopher's colleagues at the hospital. She had no children of her own-indeed, had never been married-and had put the fear of God into countless young people over the span of her career. She was of the old school of thought that believed nothing was more effective at keeping order in a classroom than a good hard slipper across the backside. She made it very clear to Martin in the first five minutes of their meeting that she would not tolerate any sort of unruly behaviour, insolence, or poor manners. Martin spent several hours a day writing letters and words, reading, adding and subtracting sums, and most importantly trying his hardest not to provoke the wrath of Miss Murphy. This proved to be somewhat of a challenge, due to his sensitive nature. He would often get upset when he wasn't able to learn something quickly enough, and it didn't help that his tutor was impatient and chastised him for being what she called 'dense'. Consequently, tears were usually shed, which resulted in more belittling comments and threats of punishment. He had been rapped on the knuckles with a ruler several times for his whinging, and it made him even more determined to swallow his tears the next time and not cry for any reason.

Another problem had presented itself to make life difficult for little Martin. When he returned home from the farm, Martin's bedwetting had begun again in earnest. Ms. Brown was usually able to take care of the matter before his parents got wind of it, but sometimes the evidence was impossible to hide. Martin usually spent part of the morning in the cupboard under the stairs on those occasions, after having his bottom spanked by his Mummy. It sometimes seemed to him that she delighted in his failure to control his bladder at night; she almost looked happy, triumphant, when she told him to retrieve her hairbrush from the dressing table in her room. She never would use her hand to spank him, telling him she didn't want to touch a disgusting little boy who liked to wee on himself. The large wooden brush was her weapon of choice.

The knowledge that he had made his Mummy angry again, and that she thought he was disgusting, always hurt Martin much worse than the spankings ever could. He longed for his mother to be proud of him, for the ability to make her smile, to be the kind of boy she wanted to spend time with cuddling and reading stories and talking things over. His entire little life was ever focused on what would make his Mummy happy. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how clever, no matter how well mannered, he always managed to get it wrong in the end.

He couldn't count on Daddy to be there in his times of heartache. His father had been working later and later into the night, and it was sometimes three or four days in a row before Martin saw him at all. Even then it was usually a brief hello, a pat on the head, an admonishment to tidy up his toys. Daddy also carried out punishments for infractions that had made his mother especially cross during the day, such as taking apart the kitchen radio to see where the sound came from. Even though he had been successful in putting it back together again exactly as it was before, Mummy was still livid. His father had whipped him that night when he had gotten home. Indeed, Christopher had quickly forgotten the incident with the knife in his sister's kitchen, knowing there was nothing Joan could say to him about disciplining his son in his own house.

It was at bedtime when Martin felt the loneliest, the most unloved and unwanted. There was no one to talk to about the fears he had inside him. There was no one to sit at his bedside and read him stories, or tuck the covers in around him, or give him a kiss on his forehead. There was nothing that made him feel safe and cozy; mostly, what he felt was confusion, and sadness making a dull pressure in his chest, and the worry of what the morning would bring like a hot brick in his stomach. It was at these times when he would think of his Aunty Joan, missing her so terribly that the ache inside him felt like more than he could bear. He prayed over and over that she would come and take him away, so often that it became a mantra in his head that he unconsciously repeated. After a while, Martin began to understand the futility of his prayers. At the age of five, he had come to this final, grim conclusion: there was simply no one listening.


	7. Chapter 6

**Doc Martin is owned by Buffalo Pictures. But you knew that. :)**

CHAPTER SIX

Christopher Ellingham's plan to have Martin in boarding school by the age of seven had come to fruition. Martin had breezed through Infant School , having already been tutored in the things he was made to learn there. It was a great boost to his father's ego that Martin was the youngest boy to ever be enrolled at Lord Malvern Hall, and congratulated himself on getting his son's education on the fast track. He had little doubt that Martin was extremely intelligent, but in his mind there was a much bigger concern, and that was the boy's tendency to lose control of his emotions. The way he had carried on when they had left the farm had been appalling, with him sobbing and wailing in near hysterics and clinging to Joan like he was being led to slaughter. Christopher had been embarrassed and disgusted by the scene and had spent part of the trip home chastising Martin for his behaviour. The rest of the drive he fumed silently as Martin continued to cry in the back seat. Yes, he was absolutely certain now that getting Martin into Lord Malvern Hall as early as possible was the best course of action. It would toughen him up, make a man of him. And then there would be no more of his ridiculous histrionics.

XXXXXX

Nine year old Martin Ellingham was becoming very skilled at the art of avoidance. He had learned by his first night at Lord Malvern Hall two years before that the only way he would make it through boarding school alive was to keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth firmly closed. It had become apparent very quickly who the bullies were and which teachers to avoid eye contact with in the halls, and he had discovered many small spaces in which to hide until the coast was clear. Above all else he had learned in his short career as a student, these things were the most important. And yet, even though he tried his hardest at being completely invisible, there were a few things he was not able to keep his peers from noticing: the first being his ears.

Martin vaguely knew that his ears were a bit larger than average, but hadn't really given it much thought; his father's stuck out a bit as well, so it was just another family trait he had inherited and that was that. Unfortunately for him, the other lads at school didn't see it quite the same way. One boy in particular, a third year student by the name of Graham Pearson, seemed to take Martin's ears as a personal affront. Graham had given him the moniker of 'Wingnut' within the first fifteen minutes of the first day. Since he seemed to be the unofficial 'leader' of the group, being older and larger, all the other boys followed suit. Although it bothered him a great deal at first, Martin soon realized that Graham and the other boys seemed to have a nickname for everybody, not just himself. He learned to just let them get on with it and ignore them as much as possible. He obviously didn't enjoy being called names but, he reasoned, there were much worse things to endure.

And as if fate were waiting for him to make that pronouncement, his bedwetting suddenly became common knowledge to his peers. It wasn't a surprise, really; it was bound to happen sooner or later, due to the fact that the younger students slept all together in one large dormitory. Even though Graham was older and didn't share the same sleeping quarters, word spread like wildfire that Martin had yet another flaw that could be exploited. The bully couldn't have been happier to oblige. Bedwetting put Martin in a whole new category of children to torment, one that went beyond name-calling and entered into something much uglier. Now, Graham and his minions began to lay in wait for him, tripping him as he walked past. Now they tried to catch him alone so they could shove him, rough him up. That was when Martin learned never to be the last one left in a room, and when his knowledge of hiding places came in quite handy.

He made the mistake once, within those first few weeks, to run crying to the head of his dormitory after having been shoved to the ground by one of the bullies. The man only rolled his eyes at Martin and told him if he would stop being such a crybaby then maybe the other boys wouldn't feel the need to push him around. His heart sinking, Martin went away feeling completely alone, once again. He knew his father and mother would have said exactly the same thing to him, so telling them about the situation would be a lesson in futility. And so he went on enduring it, in the end, feeling he had no other option. He had never been one to fight back...he would just go through the day the best he could and if he was still standing by bedtime, he considered it a success.

Despite his big ears, his wetting the bed, and his crying, Martin Ellingham did have one thing going for him-one thing that set him above the majority of the other students at Lord Malvern Hall. Martin had a brilliant mind. He picked up on new areas of study twice as quickly as the other boys, and was able to retain information at an unprecedented speed. He could read a paragraph twice through and recite it back to you perfectly. He could multiply and divide large sums in his head and never had to write any of it down. And most amazing of all, it came as easily to him as breathing. Martin's teachers were in awe of his abilities and took time to acknowledge him when he had done something well. Knowing that he was able to please them by working hard on his studies was a great encouragement to Martin. He had been born with a natural curiosity, and now he dove into learning head first, determined to gain as much knowledge as possible in every subject.

Although his intelligence was added to the list of reasons to be tormented by the other boys, Martin had found that concentrating on his school work kept his mind from worrying about what the bullies might do next. When he was memorizing all the bones in the human body, it was much easier to ignore a rude nickname being called out to him from down the hall. After a while, Graham and his delinquent posse started to get a little bored; Martin wasn't nearly as much fun to abuse when they could no longer make him cry. There was no love lost between them, but things did quiet down a bit for a while.

Through all of this, one thing Martin could count on was his Aunty Joan, who wrote to him faithfully twice a week and occasionally sent him packages of sweets or other goodies. He wrote to her as well, but was careful not to say too much about the bullies or about how lonely and sad he often felt. He knew it would only worry his aunt if she knew he was unhappy and wasn't able to do something about it. He mostly told her about all the things he had been learning, and she in turn sent him pages of praise and encouragement and always told him how proud she and Uncle Phil were of him.

Martin was fortunate enough to have spent all his summer, half-term, and Easter holidays at the farm since he had been in boarding school, and the last time he spoke to his father he had tried to convince him to let him go there for his Christmas break as well. Christmas with Mummy and Daddy was a rather tense affair, with Mummy barely tolerating sitting in the room as he opened his gifts and dashing off as soon as he was finished. Daddy always had his mind on other things; even when he was physically in the same room, Martin never really felt like his father was 'present'. If his parents consented to let him go, this would be his first Christmas in Cornwall, and he was excited at the prospect of spending it with Aunty Joan and Uncle Phil. It didn't take much effort to imagine how warm, how festive it would feel in the farmhouse; he knew there would be a fire in the fireplace and a Christmas tree in the corner, and Aunty Joan baking cookies in the kitchen. And even if he was imagining it completely wrong, Martin thought, it would still be a much happier place than his home in London.

XXXXXX

As it happened, it was Aunty Joan who ended up getting Martin into his first bit of serious trouble at Lord Malvern Hall-indirectly, anyway.

It was a fortnight before the Christmas holidays, and Martin and his classmates were in the dining hall finishing breakfast when the post arrived. When his name was called, he raised his hand to receive the envelope and smiled when he saw it was postmarked 'Cornwall'. He tore it open immediately and began to read:

_Dear Marty,_

_We were so pleased to hear you got top marks in your __maths__ and grammar tests last week-well done! I spoke to your father and he said you can come down to the farm for your Christmas break. Uncle Phil and I are both looking forward to having you for the holidays; it will be even more special with you here with us._

_I've just had the film developed of the photos we took last time you were here, and I have enclosed the one Mr. Slater took of you and me at the __harbour. I think you look quite handsome in it, though I do wish you would smile more, Martin!_

_Study hard and we'll be together again before you know it!_

_With all our love,_

_Aunty Joan and Uncle Phil_

Martin studied the photograph in his hand, his own serious eyes staring back at him. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but he still thought he looked well enough. Aunty Joan had her arm around his shoulders in the picture, and the way _she_ was smiling at the camera more than made up for his reserved expression.

Suddenly, the letter and photo were snatched out of Martin's hands, and he realized with horror that it was Graham Pearson who had taken them.

'Well, look here, chaps, ole' Wingnut got a letter from his Mummy,' he taunted. 'I hope she sent you some nappies as well.'

Martin felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He stood helplessly as Graham began to read his letter aloud in a high, singsong voice. Several of the boys at the table looked uncomfortable, while others giggled at Martin's obvious discomfort.

'_I think you look quite handsome_!' Graham teased in his falsetto, and then said in a normal tone, 'God, your Mum must be either blind or stupid...or both!'

Martin found his voice and said indignantly, 'she's not my Mum, she's my Aunty Joan!'

'Oh, your Aunty Joan!' the bully mocked him. He looked down at the photograph in his hand and exclaimed, 'she looks a right old cow to me. I can see the family resemblance...she is nearly as ugly as you are!'

It happened so quickly, Graham was too late to react; all he felt was complete surprise as Martin took two steps toward him, fury in his eyes, and swung his fist. The punch landed squarely in the space between his left cheek and the side of his nose and the impact knocked him flat on the ground. Blood poured from his nostrils onto the front of his school blazer and tie, and he looked up at Martin, dumbfounded. Martin stood glaring at him, his hands balled into fists and shaking with anger.

'Don't _ever_,' he spoke intensely, his teeth clenched, 'say another word about my Aunty Joan.'

Graham's eyes widened. He hesitated, then nodded once. It was understood.

By this time, everyone in the dining hall was watching the scene, and two teachers had hurried over to assess the damage.

'What is the meaning of this?' Mr. Dawes demanded, looking between Martin and Graham, still bleeding on the floor. 'Ellingham! This barbaric behaviour will not be tolerated in this school! What has gotten into you?'

Martin suddenly realized the seriousness of the situation, and felt tears stinging his eyes as the shock of what he had done started to sink in. He was at once frightened of the intensity of his anger, ashamed of losing his temper...and yes, a bit proud that he had actually been the one to give Graham a taste of his own medicine.

'I...I'm sorry, sir,' he stammered, swallowing the lump in his throat. He wouldn't make any excuses; he knew that hitting another person was very wrong, no matter how much they deserved it.

'I should hope so, young man! Now I want you to go directly to the Headmaster's office and wait for me there,' Mr. Dawes pointed to one of the older boys standing nearby. 'You, Nicholson, take Pearson to the infirmary to get sorted out. The rest of you gentlemen, I suggest you get to your classes at once.'

As Martin moved toward the door, his stomach knotting at the thought of being punished by the Headmaster, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Graham Pearson, silently holding out the letter and photograph-a peace offering. Martin took them from his hand, nodded a thanks, and walked out into the hallway.

_**Note: Having never attended an all male English boarding school (I am neither English nor male, as it happens), I did some research, thought about it, and then decided to just fly by the seat of my pants. I hope it was plausible and take full responsibility for any errors! And, as always, thank you for the reviews...keep them coming!**_


	8. Chapter Seven

**Doc Martin is owned by Buffalo Pictures. :)**

CHAPTER SEVEN

The headmaster was sitting behind his desk when Mr. Dawes escorted Martin into his office. Martin was literally quaking with fear; he had never done anything like this before, and he was ashamed and confused by his outburst. What had come over him? He had never felt such anger for another person, and had certainly never hit anyone before. But when Pearson had called Aunty Joan a 'cow' and 'ugly'-well, Martin just couldn't let that be said without a fight. He hoped his Aunty Joan wouldn't be too disappointed in him for resorting to violence, even if it _was_ to defend her. He also worried about what his father was going to do to him when he got wind of the incident. It certainly wouldn't set well with him to have the Ellingham name tarnished by a son who went about using his fists to solve his problems.

'Well, Mr. Dawes, to what do I owe the pleasure?' Headmaster Winthrop asked a bit wearily. As if he couldn't already guess. 'I don't believe I've seen you in here before, young man; what is your name?' He had worked at this particular boarding school for nineteen years, having been headmaster for six of them, and had become very acquainted with many of the students. The lot of them couldn't seem to stay out of trouble for more than an hour at a time before showing up in front of him because of another disciplinary infraction.

'Ellingham, sir. Martin Ellingham,' Martin replied quietly, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on the floor.

'Ah yes, Christopher Ellingham's your father, isn't that right?' the headmaster said, a bit surprised. 'One hell of a surgeon, your father...not bad on the golf course either.'

'Erm...yes, sir.'

'What seems to be the trouble, Ellingham? Surely a well bred gentleman as yourself isn't here for disciplinary purposes?' Winthrop spoke the words with a touch of sarcasm; many a 'well-bred gentleman' had stood right where the boy was standing after being caught doing something abominable. Take them away from their parents and many resorted to behaving like animals. Some of them gleefully turned into barbarians before their Mum and Dad's car had even made it out of view on the driveway.

Mr. Dawes cleared his throat and said sternly, 'There's been a bit of an incident, sir; it seems Ellingham here felt it necessary to punch another boy in the face.'

'My goodness...I'm surprised at you, son...why would you do such a thing? The other boy obviously didn't throw the first punch; there isn't a mark on you.'

Martin swallowed nervously. 'No, sir. He didn't put his hands on me, although I feel I was provoked.' He continued to look at the floor.

'What do you mean, you 'feel you were provoked'? Is that any excuse to strike another person?' the headmaster demanded. 'And who was it that you thought deserved to be used as a punching bag?'

'It was Graham Pearson, sir. And I know it is wrong to hit anyone for any reason. I should have controlled my temper. I apologize, sir.' Martin dared to sneak a quick glance at Headmaster Winthrop, who seemed to be trying to hide a smile but couldn't contain a few chuckles that emitted from his throat. The headmaster paused for a few moments before musing, 'Graham Pearson, eh?' This time there was no denying it; the man had certainly found something amusing about this exchange.

'Graham Pearson,' he said again, sighing. 'He is one young man with whom I am very familiar indeed. As a matter of fact, his name comes up nearly every time there is an incident in this school. Do you know why that is, Ellingham?'

Martin looked at him in surprise. Was this a rhetorical question, or was the headmaster really asking for his opinion? With a small amount of hesitation, he replied sarcastically, 'because he's a mean, irritating little bully who likes to make everyone's lives a living hell?' As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Martin wished he could cram them back inside. He was only trying to be honest-would Headmaster Winthrop take it that way, or would he think Martin was being cheeky? Ah well...in for a penny, in for a pound; he was already in trouble, so one more infraction wasn't going to make that much difference in the end.

Luckily for him, the headmaster interpreted Martin's statement the way it was intended, and actually laughed out loud. 'Quite right, my boy...quite right indeed! I believe you have a strong grasp of the situation,' he exclaimed. Martin breathed a sigh of relief as the man continued, 'It may be a bit awful for me to say so, but I am sure Pearson has finally gotten his comeuppance. However, there is the subject of your punishment; though it may have been well deserved, there is still no excuse for hitting someone, and I am afraid I cannot just let this incident pass. You do understand?'

Martin was prepared for this, and he nodded unhappily. 'Yes sir, I understand.'

'Very well. I want you to write an apology letter to Pearson and deliver it to him- in person-during breakfast tomorrow. Mr. Dawes will be on hand to make sure the two of you shake hands like proper men,' he glanced at the teacher, who had been listening quietly to the exchange, wishing they would wrap it up so he could get back to the meal that he had left unfinished. 'Furthermore, I have it on good authority that you are a very bright young man and an excellent student, so I had better not see you in this office again for acting like a common hooligan. I will not hesitate to give you 'six of the best' the next time...so let's make sure there _is_ no next time, agreed?' The headmaster rose from his chair and held out his hand to Martin, who shook it solemnly.

'Agreed. Thank you, sir,' he replied. He was not especially looking forward to writing an apology to the boy who had made him miserable more times than he could count, but there were certainly much worse punishments. He had witnessed with his own eyes some of his classmates being hit on the hands with large wooden sticks, and that had only been administered by his teachers and not the actual headmaster of the school. He knew of others who were given the 'slipper', that was what Headmaster Winthrop meant by 'six of the best', which usually meant being given six good whacks on the bottom with a large, hard soled shoe. Yes, Martin would take letter-writing over the slipper any day.

XXXXX

Word got around quickly that 'Wingnut' had managed to knock Graham Pearson flat on his arse, and Martin noticed that the other boys had begun to look at him with a modicum of respect. Most of them had themselves been tormented by the bully, and seeing him being bested-especially by the crybaby who wet the bed!-was exceedingly satisfying. Martin had written the apology letter and shaken hands with Pearson as instructed, and Graham had even muttered a few words of apology in response. The final few days before the Christmas holidays thankfully went without incident and soon young Martin was boarding the train from Paddington Station to Bodmin for his Christmas on the farm.

Aunty Joan was waiting for him at the station, like always, and her heart nearly burst with joy when she saw her nephew step down from the train and smile at her. He had grown so tall and awkward, all limbs and ears, bless him; there was quite a bit of young Christopher in his features, but the full lips and large eyes were definitely a gift from his mother. There was no denying Margaret's beauty, but she was like a snowflake-delicate and lovely, with a core of ice that stung you in small doses and caused irreparable damage in large ones. Joan sighed and removed the bitter thoughts of Marty's mother from her mind, and rushed to greet the boy she had come to think of as her own.

'Look at you, Marty-you're nearly as tall as I am!' she exclaimed as she pulled him into a ferocious hug. 'You must have grown four inches since I last saw you!' Martin only grinned and blushed a bit, but his eyes shone with the pleasure of being with his Aunty again. The crisp wintery air bit into them as they loaded into the farm truck and made their way back to the farm.

The road on which they traveled was mostly fields and moors, but occasionally Martin spotted a Christmas tree in a house window, or a string of lights festooning a front door. His mother always decorated their home in London to the hilt during the Christmas holidays, with greenery on the banisters and mantle pieces and an enormous tree in the front hall. This was not because of warm family feelings; her ministrations were a showcase of her status as a prominent surgeon's wife, as there were endless dinner parties and cocktail hours to be hosted in her home. Being surrounded by all the trappings of Christmas had always made Martin feel more sad and alone. There always seemed to be something missing-something he hadn't ever really experienced but instinctively knew should be there all the same.

'I've already started baking and I have a few things hanging here and there in the house, but Uncle Phil and I wanted to wait to get the tree until you were here...you can help him find a suitable one and we can all decorate it together,' Aunty Joan said, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

'Oh, Aunty Joan, I wouldn't know how to decorate a tree...maybe I should just watch you do it, I wouldn't want to ruin it,' Martin replied.

'Don't be silly, Marty, you can't ruin a Christmas tree. There is certainly no wrong way to do it; in my opinion, the more bits and bobs you put on it, the better it looks,' Joan replied, and added under her breath, 'although I am sure _some_ people would disagree.'

'And there is to be a Christmas Fete in the village this year, it's shaping up to be quite an affair! I am on the food committee and there will be no end of good things to eat. Your Uncle Phil is supplying a big fat goose to raffle as well. It'll be good to have your help; we are going to be very busy these next few weeks.'


	9. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Although Martin had by now visited Aunty Joan many times, his forays into the village had been infrequent. Occasionally he would ride with her on her errands to the chemist or to deliver vegetables and eggs to the cafe, but he usually sat in the truck and waited while she tended to her business. He vaguely remembered being taken to the surgery to see the old doctor during one visit; he had become quite ill one spring with the flu and had spent most of his time at the farm in bed. (Aunty Joan had been very worried about him, he recalled, and also quite worried that she would have to call his father.)

Suddenly, because of Joan's participation in the festivities, he found himself being introduced to any number of grown-ups. All of them seemed to be good friends of his aunt, and all of them were more than eager to chat about everyone else's business. Being a ten year old boy, Martin found all the chatting quite dull, and didn't really understand why everybody was so interested in what everybody _else_ was doing. Was this what all adults did? He honestly hadn't been around them in groups before. If his mother held a party or meeting at his home in London, he knew in no uncertain terms to stay upstairs and out of the way. There was a faculty lounge area at school where the teachers would congregate on occasion, but students had no business there. Martin certainly had no desire to know what they got up to-he was too busy making sure he wasn't beaten up or otherwise harassed.

For the first time in his young life, Martin was getting a taste of what it was like to live in a small community. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He had never been an outgoing child; it was more in his nature to listen and study, standing back and observing things from a safe distance. In Portwenn, however, people seemed to be intent on including him in the festivities, even going so far as to ask him if he would like to join the school children in the singing of Christmas carols during the celebration (a suggestion he politely but vehemently refused). He instead became the runner of errands for a lot of the older folk, due to his possession of tireless legs and the willingness to get away from the crowd.

'Marty, I want you to take these decorations to Mrs. Lewis at the Primary School-she'll be in the office on the left as you go through the front door,' Aunty Joan instructed. 'Tell her if she needs any more to call Ms. Morgan at the chemist's and she will get the message to one of us. You can remember that, can't you? What am I saying, of course you can...' she trailed off absentmindedly, noticing something else that needed addressed before the Fete began.

'Yes, Aunty Joan,' Martin enthusiastically replied, and took off at a trot toward the school.

'Come back as soon as you can; I could still use your help!' Joan called after him.

It was a gray day and the wind was blowing a cold mist from the sea, and Martin was glad he had plenty to do to keep him warm as he quickly made his way from the school and back to where Aunty Joan was working. When he arrived, his aunt was chatting with a young woman who had a baby bundled up in a pram.

'Has it really been eighteen months since she was born? I can't believe how quickly time has passed...look at how big she is getting,' Joan exclaimed, gazing down at the little girl. 'Ah, she is quite a beauty, Eleanor.'

Martin , having just walked up to the three of them, looked into the pram to see what all the fuss was about. He supposed the little girl was all right, as far as babies went: dark hair peeking out from under a knitted cap, pink cheeks, large gray-green eyes fringed with thick black lashes. The baby returned his gaze impassively and then began waving a bottle of milk in the air, entertaining herself. Martin turned his attention back to Aunty Joan, who was now in deep conversation with the child's mother. He sighed inwardly; he was hoping she would give him something else to do so he didn't have to stand around listening to more boring conversation about people he didn't know.

As the two women were talking, the baby lost her grip on the bottle of milk she was holding and dropped it over the side of the pram, where it rolled into the gutter to join some other detritus that had accumulated there. Martin watched with disgust as her mother absentmindedly picked it up and held it out to the baby, who eagerly reached for it with two chubby hands. Was this woman really going to let her child put the filthy thing back in her mouth? Just as the baby had taken the bottle, Martin took it away and walked quickly in the direction of the pub, causing her to wail in protest.

'What do you think you're doing? Bring that back here!' the woman yelled at him, just as Aunty Joan cried, "Martin!" He ignored them and kept on going. He felt irritation he didn't quite understand; he couldn't see how this woman could just pick something up off the ground, a bottle so obviously covered with any manner of germs and bacteria, and hand it to her child without a care in the world. Why should he even care? Why did that bother him so much? Frowning, he stalked into the pub and approached the man behind the bar.

'Excuse me, do you have anything I can use to sanitize this?' Martin asked, holding up the bottle.

The man looked at him bemusedly, and pointed his thumb toward the lavatory. 'Soap and water in there, would that do?'

'I suppose it will have to.' Martin turned in the direction the man was pointing, thanking him over his shoulder.

By the time Martin returned, he found that the baby was no longer crying, but her mother was furious.

'There you are, you little bully! What do you think you're playing at, teasing my Louisa and snatching her bottle away? I'd be ashamed of myself if I were you!'

Martin looked at her indignantly. 'I am not a bully! And I didn't snatch it from her, I only took it and washed it off after it fell on the ground! She could get sick, you know, if she kept on drinking from it,' he exclaimed in an accusing tone. He glanced at Aunty Joan, who was trying hard not to smile, and then handed the bottle back to the little girl in the pram. Martin watched her little face light up as it broke into a huge smile. He felt his cheeks grow warm, and embarrassedly looked away.

_My poor story has been put on the back burner do to a new job, but I can hopefully get back on track soon. Thank you for your patience!_


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

_**Greetings, faithful readers! The latter part of this chapter was written in a flu-induced semi-brain fog. I hope it makes sense, but I make no promises.**_

_**As usual, Doc Martin is owned by Buffalo Pictures. **_

'Uncle Phil, are you sure this tree is going to fit in the house?' Martin eyed the large evergreen critically, noticing how it towered over his six foot tall uncle. The two of them had been tramping around the woods for nearly two hours now, and the rain that had started a while ago had quickly gone from a light sprinkle to absolutely tipping down. Despite being cold and wet, Martin was happy to be spending some time with Uncle Phil, just the two of them. It was a rare occasion since there was always so much work to do on the farm.

'Hmm...you may be right, son, now that I look at it closely...I don't think your Aunty Joan would take too kindly to cutting a hole in the ceiling, do you?'

'Umm, decidedly not.'

'Right. Well, let's get on, then...our tree is out here someplace, and I am quite ready to find it and get home by the fire,' Uncle Phil said determinedly. Martin jammed his hands into his pockets as they began to walk further afield.

It was five days until Christmas. The village fete had gone off without incident (except quite a few hangovers the next morning), and Martin had to admit he had even enjoyed some of it. Aunty Joan and her friends had outdone themselves with the quality and abundance of food, and Martin had eaten until he thought he may burst like a Christmas cracker. The Christmas tree in the square was bright and beautiful in the early winter twilight. For the first time, Martin was actually beginning to feel a bit of excitement and warmth in his heart from the spirit of the season. Joan noticed her nephew wearing a smile that had been missing from his previous few visits-a smile she had achingly missed and had wondered if she would ever see again.

Joan may not have had much experience with children, but it didn't take an expert to determine Martin was unhappy at boarding school. Since he had begun there, she had helplessly watched him withdraw further into himself, spending more time reading and studying and increasingly less time speaking. There was a wariness about him, and on the occasions when she reached out to him for a hug or a pat on the shoulder, he flinched-almost as if he expected a shove or a pinch instead.

The letters he wrote to her and Phil were full of news about his school work and exams and things he had learned, but never gave any idea of what he might be doing when he wasn't studying or in his classes. He had never mentioned names of anyone who may have been a friend, someone he may spend time with playing games or getting into the usual boyhood mischief. She wondered grimly if he was ever able to just relax and have a laugh with his mates. Or did he have any mates at all?

Joan put words to her worries and had confided in Phil that morning before he left with Martin to look for a Christmas tree. 'Please, try to get him to talk to you about school, won't you? Perhaps a chat, man to man, is what he needs. He only ever tells me things are fine, but I know better,' she persuaded.

'I'll try my best, Joanie, but you know how he is.'

'Yes, I do know, and that's why I'm worried. He used to be able to tell me everything he was thinking...'

'He's older now, and he's always been protective of you. Maybe he is trying to keep you from worrying and getting upset. Or maybe things really are going well, did you ever think of that?'

'No, I know my Marty, and I know when something is bothering him. Please talk to him, Phil.'

'I said I would. Now, don't get yourself worked up. I'm sure it will all work out.' This was Phil's standard answer to any problem Joan brought up to him, and quite frankly, it was becoming tiresome to her. Things always did manage to work out, but not necessarily the way you hoped or planned, and just saying the words didn't offer any sort of solution at all.

XXXXXXXX

Having at last found a suitable tree, Uncle Phil and Martin had managed to cut it down and tie it to the top of the truck fairly quickly, and were now sitting in the cab with the heating turned up full blast. Martin was just beginning to get feeling back into his toes and fingertips as they found the main road and made their way toward the farm.

'I'm going to ask you a question, Marty, and I want you to be truthful, now that your Aunty Joan isn't around. I know you've been sugar coating your letters home so you won't worry her. How are things going at that school, really?' Phil asked firmly, feeling it was best to just get it all out in the open. He could see Martin hedge in the seat beside him, looking uncomfortable and fidgeting a bit. 'Whatever you want to say will stay between us, man to man, if that's how you want it. Are you as miserable there as Joan thinks you are?'

Martin sighed. 'It doesn't really matter how I feel about it, does it, Uncle Phil? I don't have any choice but to go there, miserable or not,' he retorted with uncharacteristic vehemence. 'The truth is, I hate it there, it's lonely and unfriendly and the other boys are all imbeciles and cretins. I hate having to live with them, I'd much rather be on my own if I had the choice between the two.'

'Is there nothing you enjoy there at all?'

'I enjoy learning and studying. And I enjoy the libraries.'

Phil smiled. 'Well, there's nothing at all wrong with that. Do the other lads mistreat you?'

With a satisfied smirk, Martin briefly told him of his altercation with Graham the bully, which made his uncle laugh until there were tears in his eyes. 'Well done, son!' he exclaimed, patting Martin on the back. 'I daresay they will think twice about bothering you again after a punch like that!'

'Don't tell Aunty Joan.'

'Wouldn't dream of it.'

It seemed to Phil that young Marty was holding his own at school, even if he wasn't entirely pleased with being there. The poor lad was right; he really didn't have a choice in the matter. It was a shame his father was such an unfeeling, self-serving tosser...ah, but there wasn't anything to be done about that either. Best to make the most of what you are given and get on, he thought, and his nephew seemed to be doing that in his own way.

The pair of them were nearly home when they met another small truck coming from the opposite direction, and Phil pulled over slightly to make room in the narrow lane.

'That looks like John Slater's old clunker...wonder what he's doing up this way?' Phil pondered out loud.

'Dunno. You mean Mr. Slater the fisherman?' Martin answered absentmindedly, busy looking out the window at the sea, where the rain clouds were beginning to break up.

'Yes...' Phil replied slowly, glancing at the boy. 'You know him?'

'Met him a few times. Went on his boat once. It was awful, I was dreadfully sick...I told Aunty Joan I would never set foot on a boat again after that!' Martin wrinkled his nose, remembering the awful nausea he felt that day.

The truck cab was quiet as Phil contemplated this new information, as he felt a cold anxiety begin to gnaw at his insides. 'Huh,' he remarked, the picture of nonchalance, 'when was this, then?'

Martin thought a minute. 'Um...last summer, I think?' He sat up taller in his seat as the house came into view. 'Oh good...I wonder what's for tea? I'm starving!'

Phil began to experience a nausea of his own as he pulled the truck into the farmyard, home at last.


	11. Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

Christopher Ellingham's holiday season was quickly becoming less than pleasant.

He and his wife had only just arrived on holiday in Paris that evening, and Margaret had retired very early after dinner, complaining of a headache. He had decided to visit the hotel bar for a nightcap: something he didn't indulge in as often as he would have liked, if only to avoid the inevitable row with his wife that came after. She didn't approve of his alcohol consumption and made no attempt to hide her feelings, usually accusing him of being a raging alcoholic and threatening to leave him and take her father's money with her. He found it best for all parties involved to humor her when he had to and be creative with the truth the rest of the time.

That night, he was quite happy he had taken the risk, as he had met a very beautiful young woman at the bar. She had been very impressed with his surgeon credentials and thoroughly charmed by his charisma and good looks. She was all too keen to invite him back to her room for her own special brand of holiday cheer. Who was he to refuse? Margaret was sure to be out like a light until well into the next morning. She would be none the wiser, like so many times before. He had gotten quite good at covering his tracks.

He and the woman-her name escaped him now-had began kissing hungrily as soon as they boarded the lift, their mutual lust overtaking them. At least twenty years his junior, her body under his wandering hands was firm, with large, perfect breasts and a lovely taut bottom, which he gripped to hold her close against his groin. She made appreciative sounds, the tip of her tongue exploring his full lips. It had been quite a long time since he had been kissed like this, Christopher thought to himself, before the blood began to rush from his brain toward other, more pressing, parts of his body. He and his object of affection were too engrossed in each other to notice when the elevator door opened on the fourth floor to let on a passenger.

Margaret was having trouble sleeping. A siren on the road outside the hotel had woken her, and she took the opportunity to visit the loo and take two paracetamol for the headache that still had not abated. Now, although her body was thoroughly exhausted, she couldn't seem to turn off her thoughts. For starters, she was angry that her husband's 'nightcap' was nearly into its third hour, and he would most likely be hung over the next day, their first full day on holiday. The longer she laid there, the more furious she became, until she finally decided to take some initiative and go harangue him into calling it a night. She wasn't about to allow him to ruin the lovely plans she had made for their Christmas together.

She dressed hastily, made sure her hair and lipstick were presentable, and made her way down the hall to the lift. She pressed the button before noticing the elevator was going up instead of down. No matter; she would wait and catch it on the way back down.

The lift doors opened to reveal a couple in a very compromising position, the woman clinging to the man, whose hands and mouth were enjoying the many goods she had to offer. Margaret blinked, unmoving. Neither of them noticed her, or even that the doors had opened at all. She continued to stand there like a stone as the doors slid closed and the lift went on its way...stood there for several minutes after, her mind processing what her eyes had just witnessed.

The next morning before dawn, after a night in which Christopher had been thoroughly pleasured in every possible sense of the word, he crept from the young woman's bed without waking her and rode the lift back down to his hotel room on the fourth floor. He was sure his wife would still be sleeping, and hoped he could have a quick shower and slide into bed next to her without her waking up. He was knackered, quite frankly, and looked forward to a couple hours of sleep before what would be an inevitably long day with Margaret at the reins.

An odd sight met him as he approached the room's door: his suitcase was sitting in front of it, with a slip of paper attached to the side. His stomach dropped, knowing immediately he had somehow been caught. He unfolded the note slowly and read:

_'Don't bother knocking. Enjoy your visit with your new friend. Merry bloody Christmas.'_

Christopher sighed, ran a hand over his face. So much for a few hours sleep. He knew if he tried to talk to Margaret right now, it would be the beginning of a horrible scene and before it was all over, the entire hotel would be witness to her wrath and his embarrassment. No, he would leave her alone for now, go have a coffee, and decide what to do next, if there was any way at all to rectify the situation.

He crossed the street to a small cafe that smelled of fresh croissants and espresso, and sat at a table by the window. He ordered a cup of coffee, then another, rehearsing in his head the words he would say to his wife when he returned to their hotel room. As he stood to leave, however, he glanced out the window and with dismay saw Margaret stepping into a taxi as the driver loaded her suitcases into the boot. Before he could pay for his coffee and run out the door, she was gone.

It wasn't until after he had gone back to the room of the young woman with whom he had spent the previous night, only to find she had checked out that morning, that he came to the decision of where to go. He knew there was no point in going home to London and face being locked out-not without giving Margaret a few days to cool off. He didn't fancy the idea of staying in Paris alone on Christmas. The only other alternative was to pay Joan a visit in Cornwall, spend the holidays with his son. He hadn't seen Martin since the summer, hadn't spoken to him much since then either. It would be good to see the boy. Joan couldn't refuse a visit from her brother at Christmas; she didn't have to know the true reason he was visiting.

He boarded a flight to Exeter the next morning, and from there the train to Bodmin Station. A taxi took him on the last leg of his journey, along the narrow, winding roads to Joan's farm by the sea. He knew he had made the right decision in coming here. He hadn't even phoned his sister to tell her he was on his way; he thought it would be a nice surprise for Martin, being with his father for Christmas.

The taxi pulled into the front yard of the farmhouse, and Christopher paid the driver and got out to retrieve his bags. He noticed a truck parked close to the house-Phil must have gotten another one, although it hardly looked in better shape than the one before. The taxi pulled away, and he started to walk toward the door when it abruptly opened. Joan must have seen him coming, he mused.

Joan was indeed at the door, but she wasn't alone: she was accompanied by a man Christopher had never seen before. As he watched, the man pulled Joan close to him, and she in turn put her hand by his cheek and brought his face toward her, kissing him passionately. They stood that way, lost in the embrace, for quite a long time.


	12. Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

**Author's note: I wondered how Martin's father had found out about Joan's affair with John Slater; she mentioned it was the reason he had stopped Martin visiting her, because he didn't approve of her infidelity. They didn't seem to be close at all; I doubt she would have confided in him about it. So how **_**did **_**he find out? This is my idea of how it may have happened.**

Christopher stood stock still in the yard, watching this unexpected scenario play out in front of him, all the while wearing a smirk on his face. After so many years of Joan questioning her brother's moral integrity and acting the saint, he was almost gleeful to learn she had a little secret of her own. _Oh, how the mighty have fallen_, he thought. What bothered him, however, was that his son may have been exposed to this sort of behavior. It had been very easy to hide his own infidelity from Martin, because they simply were never around each other.

Joan and her lover both noticed Christopher standing there at the same time. The latter looked stricken, and without uttering a word, walked to his truck and sped off. Joan's face went white and she staggered back a step into the doorway, steadying herself on the wooden frame. 'What are you doing here?' she asked weakly when her brother had joined her at the door.

'I daresay I should be asking you that question,' Christopher answered glibly. 'Was that an early Christmas present?'

'Christopher, please...'

'What? Did I misinterpret it? Was it not what it looked like? Because it looked to me that my sister has a little something on the side.' He was enjoying making Joan squirm.

She took a deep breath. 'You obviously weren't meant to see that. He and I...we...won't be seeing each other anymore. Please, I beg you, not a word of this to Phil. I plan to tell him in time. Please, Chris, don't say anything.' Having to beg for anything from her brother made Joan feel physically ill, like signing a pact with the devil himself.

'Has my son been exposed to this affair?' Christopher asked sharply, pushing past Joan into the house. Unsteadily, she followed. 'Of course not!' she exclaimed indignantly. 'I would never...'

'So he's never seen the two of you together? He has never met this man?'

Joan paled again. 'Yes, they've met, but it was completely innocent. Marty has never seen...'

'He's seen enough. More than he should, at any rate. I can't believe you have been so careless in regards to the upbringing of my son!'

'You know full well I have done no such thing! I would never do anything to harm Marty, and in this situation he has only ever seen two friends on an outing together. And as I've said, it is not going to happen again. I'm not going to see him anymore.' Christopher snorted.

'Just like that, you'll not see him anymore. Well, that is completely believable,' he spat.

Joan had had enough. 'Why exactly are you here, my dear brother? And without your lovely wife? A bit odd that you aren't together on Christmas,' she said in mock surprise. He glowered at her.

'I am here to see my son,' he answered, his anger barely controlled.

'But of course the _mother_ of your son couldn't be bothered.'

'This is not any of your business, Joan.'

'But my private life is your concern?' Joan exclaimed.

The two of them were standing in the kitchen across the table from each other, both looking as though they could come to blows if need be. Before they could continue arguing, Martin burst in the door, followed closely by a stricken- looking Phil.

'We're back, Aunty Joan...we found a great tree...' his exuberance faded as he recognized his father, and he stopped in his tracks. 'Dad?' he said warily.

'Hello, Martin,' Christopher stiffly replied.

'What...what are you doing here?'

Without thinking, his father answered, 'I've come to collect you and take you to London. I thought it would be nice to spend Christmas together in the city, stay in a posh hotel, that sort of thing.' The idea had just come to him in that split second, but he had to admit it sounded better than staying on this wretched farm with his meddling sister. Besides, he had to make sure Martin was away from her morally questionable behavior as soon as possible, before it adversely effected his development.

Martin's face fell and he said with trepidation, 'but...we just got the Christmas tree...I was to help decorate it...' He felt dread and panic invade his senses, and willed himself not to cry. 'I wanted to stay here for Christmas, Dad, you already said I could.'

'Yes, well, I've changed my mind. I'd like for you and I to have some time together.'

'Why don't you just stay here then?' Martin suggested hopefully. Christopher glanced at Joan, who was staring at him with a look of horror on her face. Phil hadn't moved from his spot in the corner of the room, and was now watching the scene uneasily.

'No, I'm afraid that's out of the question,' his father answered stonily.

'But Dad...please, I don't want to go to London. I want to stay here.' Martin tried to keep his voice calm; he knew whinging and begging would only make the situation much worse. He wanted badly to run into Aunty Joan's arms and refuse to go anywhere with his father. Besides, since when did he ever want to spend time with Martin? Why now? And where was his mother?

'Christopher, I know you aren't very happy with me right now,' Joan began, her voice trembling, 'but please don't take it out on Martin. He has been looking forward to his Christmas here. Why don't you stay here with us, that way you can be together, if that is what you want.'

Martin walked silently to where Joan was standing and took her hand, the two of them a united front. Christopher felt a pang of jealousy that his own son preferred to be with Joan, that he was ultimately choosing her over his father. Well, all of that was going to stop right now. His jealousy quickly turned to anger.

'Go pack your things, Martin,' he said with finality. 'We are leaving.'

Martin was too stunned, too devastated to protest. He knew there was no use trying to change his father's mind. He could tell something bad had happened between Dad and Aunty Joan, and it was something that was not going to be resolved any time soon. He woodenly walked out of the kitchen to gather his belongings, striding past Uncle Phil, who reached a hand out and briefly touched his shoulder. As soon as he was gone, Joan whispered, 'please don't do this, Christopher. You have just had a long trip, you're too tired to make this sort of decision now. At least stay here tonight and decide in the morning.'

'I agree with Joan,' Phil quickly added, although still a bit unsure as to what exactly was taking place. The casual information his nephew had given him about John Slater was very unsettling, and now Christopher had been thrown into the mix. He longed to sit down with his wife privately and get things sorted, but he knew he would get the chance soon enough; at the moment, his concern for Marty took over. 'No reason to rush off in such a hurry. Get a good night's rest, Chris, then see how you feel.'

'Phil, go and see if you can help Martin, would you? I'd like to have a word with my sister,' Christopher coldly replied. Phil hesitated, nodded once, and exited the room.

'This is Martin's last trip to visit you, Joan. From now on, he will spend his holidays with us in London or at school, but I think it will be best for all parties involved if he doesn't return here. I can't in good conscience allow it,' he said without hesitation. 'You have spoiled him, made him too soft. And now this affair as well...it is high time someone makes a proper man of him before it is too late.'

At his words, Joan slumped into a kitchen chair. 'No! You can't do this!' she choked, tears spilling from her eyes.

'I can and I am. Now, don't make a scene, Joan,' he warned, as his sister began to sob. 'I would be more than happy to bring Phil up to date on all the latest news before I leave. And you are not to mention my decision to Martin-I know he will only go into hysterics and make an ass of himself, and the last thing I need is him blubbing all the way to London.' Without another word, he went to the telephone and phoned for a taxi to come and collect them.

Joan's eyes shone with fury through her tears. 'You are a horrible, unfeeling man, Christopher,' she said quietly, with emotion. 'No matter how much you pretend, you will never be a proper father, not the one Martin deserves.'

Phil and Martin returned to the kitchen then, Phil carrying Martin's heavy suitcase. Joan could easily see her nephew had been crying, but now stood silently, his face impassive. She quickly wiped her eyes and tried to give him a reassuring smile. He only blinked at her.

'The car should be here in a few minutes; I will wait outside. Martin, say your goodbyes now,' Christopher instructed. Without another word, he picked up his bags and walked out the door.

Joan quickly got up from the table and went to Martin, pulling him into a hug. 'I'm so sorry you can't stay, Marty. We were so looking forward to it...' Martin didn't return the hug, only stood there like a stone, and Joan felt the tears well up in her eyes again.

'Martin, I want you to know how proud we are of you, and how much we love you. And no matter what, you will always have a home here...you will always be welcome. You understand?' she said with emotion, looking into his eyes. He nodded slowly, and she pulled him close again, trying to make the most of the time they had left. The thought of him not returning was agony-a horrible physical pain that twisted and gnawed at her heart. She already could feel his absence, even as she held him, and she didn't know how she was going to bear it.

'Please don't cry, Aunty Joan,' he said. 'I'll be all right. I don't want you to worry.'

She smiled at him and kissed him on the forehead, as she had done many times since he was very small. 'I want you to have a good Christmas, Marty. We'll be here, thinking of you.'

'All right,' he answered quietly, and took a deep breath. 'Goodbye, Aunty Joan. Goodbye, Uncle Phil.' Looking both resigned and determined, Martin picked up his suitcase and went through the door to join his father.

**THE END**

_Thank you to all who have read and commented on my story; you have given me unending encouragement. I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have loved writing it!_


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